


Mile High Club

by Glare



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar 2015, Businessman!Finch, Flight Attendant!Reese, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5471327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glare/pseuds/Glare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold joins the mile high club</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mile High Club

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at a PWP. I didn't know how to write this, or rate this, or tag this. Bear with me.

The letter arrives in the mail only a week before Christmas, an appropriately festive green envelope coated in a truly horrifying number of colorful, holiday-themed stickers. Harold’s own name and address has been written painstakingly neat on the front. Crammed into the corner, the only other space clear of garishly colored candy canes and cartoon reindeer, is a sloppily scrawled return address for Will Ingram.

Said envelope, which contained an invitation to spend the holidays with Ingram and the charming young woman he’d recently settled down with in some sleepy Midwestern town, is tucked carefully into the pocket of Harold’s coat as he shuffles dutifully through the line for the airport’s security inspection. The tickets for this particular trip had been exceedingly difficult to acquire on such short notice and likely cost more than the value of several of his internal organs combined. For what is not the first time, Harold finds himself wondering why Universal Heritage Insurance has never invested in a company jet. At least, his secretary assured him when she handed over the tickets, the seat was first class. And Will had sounded so excited when Harold called to confirm his attendance.

He gets through security without a problem, and loading goes smoother than it might have if this particular flight wasn’t a red-eye. Groggy passengers stumble onto the plane like zombies, docilely allowing themselves to be herded by the directions of equally exhausted flight attendants. By the time the plane reaches cruising altitude, most of them will have dozed off in their seats and Harold will be able to enjoy the flight in blessed silence. He might even be able to get some work done.

There’s only one outlier in this scene: a tall, middle-aged flight attendant with silver-streaked hair and a garish holiday-themed tie. A red and green monstrosity that clashes horribly with his navy blue uniform vest. _John_ , as his name tag proclaims, shuffles up and down the aisles as the passengers find their way to their seats, assisting those who need it with stowing their luggage in the overhead bin. He chats easily with the more alert of his patrons, asking after hometowns and holiday plans. Harold supposes the other passengers must consider this behavior friendly. In his opinion, it seems closer to nosey.

As if Harold’s disapproving thoughts have summoned him, John materializes at Harold’s side when he makes to stow his own luggage. _Graceful_ , Harold can’t help but note.

“Hi,” John says in his smoky-soft voice, cordially extending a hand, “I’m John. I’ll be your flight attendant this evening.”

Not one to neglect manners, Harold shakes it. “Harold Wren.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Wren. Would you like some help with your bag?”

He wants to say no, to send John on his way before the barrage of questions begins, but his body aches from so long on his feet and Harold knows better than to put additional strain on it over something as petty as the flight attendant’s curiosity. He nods his consent, and John hauls his luggage into the overhead compartment with practiced ease.

“Where are you headed this season, Mr. Wren?” John asks cordially, immune to Harold’s sour mood.

“Visiting family.” It’s an acceptable answer without giving away too many details.

John just smiles at Harold like he’s done something adorable and makes no further comment. He closes the overhead bin and steps back enough to allow Harold access to his row.

“Thank you,” Harold says, settling down into his seat—on the aisle. His secretary deserves a raise for the magic she works.

“If you need anything else, Mr. Wren, let me know.”           

There’s a gentle pressure on Harold’s shoulder, and by the time he realizes that it was John’s hand, the man has already slipped away assist the last few stragglers with their things. The heat seems to linger long past takeoff.

\--

True to form, the majority of the other passengers have succumbed to the late hour by the time cruising altitude is reached and they’re permitted to access their things. Harold sets to work on editing a new contract, glasses perched on the end of his nose as he flips through the document, highlighting the mistakes he finds in red pen. The quiet is a pleasant change after the bustle of the crowded airport, only amplified by the holiday rush. John proves himself to be an excellent flight attendant, despite Harold’s misgivings about his curious nature. He makes rounds frequently enough that the few waking passengers lack for nothing, but infrequently enough as to not disturb those that have fallen asleep. Harold dutifully tries to ignore the way John brushes too close in passing or settles a hand on Harold’s shoulder when he brings over a fresh coffee.

The only obstacle to Harold’s plan to continue ignoring John is John himself. The fact of the matter is, Harold has eyes and a healthy appreciation for the finer things in life. And John certainly is one of the finer things. He’s younger than Harold and a good few inches taller. Lean muscle all but ripples beneath the fabric of his uniform as he wanders up and down the aisles, tending to the other passengers with a care not found in many of his coworkers. The smile that spreads across his feature when someone thanks him for something is bright and genuine. It is a nice smile. John, it seems, finds nothing more rewarding than tending to those who’ve fallen under his care. And when he leans over the shoulder of an elderly gentleman a few rows up, offering his assistance on the man’s crossword, well…

Harold goes back to furiously scribbling over the contract, adding his burning cheeks and the growing tightness in his slacks to the list of things he’s going to ignore. He misses the satisfied look on John’s face when he notices Harold’s flush.

\--

There is exactly one moment when Harold thinks he might actually make it off his flight unscathed.

John promptly dashes that hope by spilling coffee down the front of Harold's shirt.

In hindsight, Harold probably should have been more suspicious. John spent the majority of the flight demonstrating a near feline grace as he moved through the aisles, and the sudden bout of clumsiness was strikingly out of character. Hell, the coffee wasn’t even _hot_ —like it had been sitting out somewhere for hours, waiting for the perfect opportunity to ruin his four hundred dollar dress shirt.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Wren,” John gasps in a decent imitation of horror, staring down at the seeping brown stain marring the previously pristine white shirt. “Here, come with me and I’ll help you get cleaned up.”

Harold is all but dragged from his chair and down the aisle towards the nearest lavatory, the few other waking passengers politely avoiding staring. One of the benefits of first class. John’s grip on his wrist is firm, but not painful. Harold suspects that he could get loose if he wanted to. Instead he allows John to tow him along and into the bathroom after him.

“John, I really don’t-” Harold starts to say when the attendant closes and locks the door behind them, but John presses him back against the door and Harold promptly loses his train of thought because John drops to his knees without preamble and begins to fumble with Harold’s belt. He’s been half-hard since John had gone about flaunting his assets earlier, but this…

“John,” He tries again over the sound of his belt clattering to the floor and the zip of his pants, gasping when John works a hand inside Harold’s pants and presses against his length through the fabric of his briefs, “the other passengers…”

“They can wait a few minutes, Harold,” John growls, impatiently tugging at Harold’s slacks and underwear until he can free his aching erection from its confines. “Besides, I’m helping someone right now.”

Whatever protests might have remained die somewhere in Harold’s throat when John takes him into his mouth without warning, all remaining willpower diverted to stifling the desperate noises that want to escape. He scrambles for purchase on something—anything—and is rewarded with an encouraging hum from John when his fingers curl tight into the other man’s hair. John is anything but inexperienced, and it’s not long before Harold is gasping, struggling to keep from thrusting into the heat of the other man’s mouth. He doesn’t seem to mind when Harold can’t stop himself in time.

Harold can feel himself teetering on the edge of orgasm, and when he can’t string together an intelligible sentence, attempts to convey the idea with a sharp tug to John’s hair. The other man pulls off for only a moment, just long enough to look up at him through sinfully long eyelashes and mutter a breathless, “It’s fine, Harold,” before returning to his task.

John does something _magnificent_ with his tongue, and combined with the previous gentle encouragement, Harold is spilling into John’s mouth. True to the form of his prior performance, John does not spill a drop.

It’s only when John is tucking him back into his slacks does Harold’s brain begin to come back online. He’s not capable of much coherent thought yet, but he’s capable of enough to realize that John’s arousal is still tenting the fabric of his pants where he kneels at Harold’s feet. It only take a bit of encouragement to get him upright, another sharp tug to his hair, and John’s pants into his neck while he fumbles with the zipper. Harold murmurs endearments and praise into the other man’s ear while he strokes him off, reveling in the way John blushes and whines when he’s told how _good_ he’s been. John comes in his hand and collapses shuddering against Harold, his full weight pinning the smaller man to the door. More praise follows and Harold continues to stroke him until John hisses from the overstimulation, batting the hand away and straightening his clothes.

Harold is quite certain he’ll never be free from the memory of John licking his own mess clean from Harold’s fingers.

\--

Harold Wren emerges from the bathroom looking more disheveled than when he entered and followed by John, who is wearing a very smug, satisfied expression.

“Do you do this for every passenger you spill drinks on?” Harold asks, voice wavering.

John sidles into his personal space, heedless of the potential prying eyes, and all but purrs, “I don’t spill drinks on other passengers.”

And then he’s gone, back to his duties, like he hasn’t just given someone a mind-blowing orgasm in an airline bathroom. Harold wobbles back down the aisle and collapses into his seat. When John passes by him, he notices that John hasn’t quite managed to tame his hair from its rough treatment, and feels victorious at leaving John even the tiniest bit ruffled. They don’t speak again for the remainder of the flight.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Wren,” John says, moving to shake Harold’s hand as he exits the plane. Harold curls his fingers around the slip of paper John had pressed into them when he pulls away, and John send him off with a final, flirtatious wink.

He can’t bring himself to look until he’s in the back of a cab, halfway to Will’s home. It bears John’s name and phone number, along with a note to _call me sometime_.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't actually know if a holiday tie would clash with the navy, as I can not match colors to save my life, but I'd assume so.  
> And remember, kids, don't go blowing attractive strangers without protection. Unlike someone in this story [looks pointedly at John].


End file.
